She laid flat on her yellow sheeted spread. Her stomach in a line, the only place she felt she could fly. An echo of music humming against her ears. The lyrics muted from hearing. Her fingers punch the keys of her make-believe piano. A music sheet of thoughts, seconds of mental block. The next song plays.
The battery life of her pen ink runs low. She smiles at the beauty of a future’s masterpiece. Will she save it though? The critics on her shoulders speak to differ. Will she listen though? To a lie, or the mirror of her only truth? Always questioning, always dismissing. Her palms rest against the mask of her skeletal jaw-line. Tips drum restlessly, what was that crawling? Or was it her mere state of paranoia? Eyes move along to a rhythm of peripheral vision, refusing sleep.